


What are we living for  - (added scenes).

by FreyaLor



Category: Casablanca (1942), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: According to an obscure, yet unbreakable deal between Lustig and me, in which we both associate our respective skills for your pleasure, here is what could be considered as a deleted-for-the-sake-of-teen-rating scene for "What are we living for".It doesn't change a thing in the flawless plot of "What are we living For". It just makes it an M-rated fic. That's all.yes, Lustig basically OUTSOURCED her smut to me. I am DAFT -  Deptartment for Added Filth and Thrill. Happy to provide.





	1. Fresh figs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lustig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/gifts).



_“Good,” the captain growled and crashed their lips back together._

He heard paper being crumpled, he heard Richelieu’s shoes scratching the floor. He heard the desk creak, he heard a pen hitting the soft chair. But the loudest litany was the maddening sound of his own heart.

 

After a while, he pulled apart slightly, because he wanted time to enjoy the sight. It was there, the pale soft skin he’d been craving for months, it was there, burning beneath those formal robes. He was there, the man he’s been watching, picturing, fantasizing. He was there, flushed and panting, enthralled, panicked.

 

 

He was there, _Armand._

 

 

Treville swept a resolved stare down the robes of black and red silk, as he had inspected city ramparts for weak points so many times. He took some time to breathe, gathering the last shreds of his reverence, because the Holy Cross was still staring at him in the face, as he removed it from the Cardinal’s slender neck.

 

Richelieu watched, petrified, trying to think clearly, or maybe trying not to think at all.

 

The Cross exhaled a tiny clinking sound as it hit the desk, and the solider hesitated for a heartbeat, centuries of Holy Law making his hand waver. A Cardinal. A Minister. _A man._

 

Richelieu whimpered, desperate, and tilted his head to graze Treville’s bottom lip with a sharp, pink tongue.

 

 

Holy Laws burned to the last word.

 

 

The Captain grabbed the red silken belt, unknotting it off. He almost ripped the small buttons apart, and the Cardinal might have saved his robes by sliding out of them before Treville was halfway done.

They fell on the floor with a resentful hiss, and the soldier dived into the warm delicate skin as a drowning man fumbles for air.

 

Treville wanted to touch everything, and it made him hasty, and it made him rough. But he was there beneath him, the man he thirsted for, his breath short, his eyes blurred. He was there, naked, hard, shuddering.

 

He was there, _Armand._

 

 

 

The Captain paused again, asking in a broken voice if they should go for the bedroom. Armand hissed and sinfully leaned further back on the desk, pushing stacks of papers off to the floor with famished eyes fixed upon Treville. He couldn’t have been any clearer.

 

The soldier frantically removed his uniform, and though he had spent his life taking care of every piece of leather, every panel of cloth, this night he hated it all.

Armand, a bit too dazed maybe, chose to let him work for him, breathing and licking small encouragements into his ear. He looked eager, he looked bold, but as soon as Treville kicked his boots away with all the rest, Richelieu’s wide glassy eyes darted downwards, and crawled back up with a fevered mix of admiration and fear.

 

Jean looked down at himself, red-hot and throbbing. He felt Armand’s unconscious jolt backwards, and realized who exactly he was holding tight in his arms.

 

 A Cardinal. A Minister. A man.

 

 

Treville gently cupped the pale man’s cheek, urging the panicked gaze away from his broader, stronger frame and up to his face, as he summoned his most reassuring smile.

 

“Nothing more than what you want, Armand.” He whispered.

 

Something insane caught fire into those wide blue eyes, and Armand lifted one leg to pull Jean flush against him, melting all doubt away with a slow, deliberate shift of his hips. Treville cried out, helpless.

 

“I want _everything_.” Richelieu breathed.

 

 

And he had never been the kind of man to be denied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Never letting go of Armand’s fevered stare, Jean offered an elegant bow, and picked another ripe, plump fig out of the bowl. He delicately lifted it to Richelieu’s thin lips, nodding him to take a bite. Defiant but tamed, the pale man complied, curiosity and pleasure knitting his brow in subtle lines.

 

Treville groaned as he watched the blood red juice drip down the corner of Armand’s lips. Bewildered, he dropped the fruit, sending him rolling at their feet unnoticed. He gently wiped the thick liquid off with his thumb, then, the sight of it driving him mad enough to thrust his hips blindly against the other man once or twice.

 

Armand let out a small cry, but his foggy eyes remained on Treville’s soaked thumb as he uttered, shaking.

 

 

“You can have a taste too if you want.”

 

 

The soldier’s mouth split in a dangerous grin, then, and his voice rumbled somewhere low in his throat:

 

“ _Oh, I will_. ”

 

 

With that, he lowered his hand, and let his thumb graze Armand’s cock from base to tip, spreading the fresh juice there, sending shudders up the white skin. Richelieu gasped, loud and desperate, already far too close for his own plans.

 

Merciless, Treville dropped one knee on the floor. His hands followed his way down in a firm, steady path from slender shoulders to quivering thighs, and he stroked them apart with authority. His eyes hooked into Armand’s anxious gaze, he viciously licked the red juice away, taking his time, slowing it down. Richelieu yelled, his slender hand flying into the soldier’s hair. Soon enough Treville swallowed him deep, steadying the narrow waist with an arm.

 

Jean showed care, he showed expertise, and Armand was doomed to be lost. As the captain sucked and rubbed and licked, he drank like rewards high-pitched cries he earned, spiraling up into frenzy. At some point, panting in rugged gasps, Richelieu pushed him away, begging him to slow down in confused words.

 

Treville had a lopsided smile, wiping spit on his mouth with the back of his hand, and merely asked:

 

“How long has it been?”

 

Armand blinked twice, then blushed slightly, averting his eyes.

 

“How long, Armand?” Jean insisted, getting back up.

 

Richelieu gulped, hissed and sighed, but eventually mouthed something like “years”.

 

Treville’s smile only widened, and he nodded to himself.

 

“Trust me then.”

 

 

And he kissed Armand harsh and hungry, feeding on his screams as he grabbed his leaking shaft and finished him off in four slow pumps of his fist.

The pale man’s shudders were almost violent, his pleasure tearing soft cries out of him for endless minutes. Treville waited, patient, holding Armand up with his free arm, watching his face with raw intensity as waves of aftershock washed through him.

 

Obviously troubled, Richelieu weakly shifted away, his eyes lost somewhere between the desk and the messy floor.

 

“I told you not to let it end so fast” he whispered, mortified.

 

“Who talked about ending?” Jean sneered.

 

And without waiting for any kind of answer, he pushed Armand back until he laid flat upon the desk, and slid the hand that remained there drenched in hot semen further down. He pushed two fingers in, looming over Richelieu with madness in his gaze. Armand cried out in shock, hissed Jean’s name a few times, but as the soldier deftly moved his fingers deeper, Richelieu’s protest broke into a pathetic note.

 

Treville bit on his own need, forcing himself to make it slow, to make it good, because indeed, it could have been years. But soon enough, panic gave ground to pleasure again, and Armand was burning, moaning, lifting his hips to meet Jean’s hand, already hardening, because _indeed, it could have been years_.

 

The soldier smiled, as he smiled at the barrel of a gun so many times. He pulled his fingers out and thrusted himself deep, wrecking what was left of Armand’s sanity with a short laugh and a groan. Richelieu gasped, breathless, gripping the broad shoulders with slender yet forceful arms, his sharp nails digging bruises in Treville’s back.

 

Jean didn’t think anymore. He couldn’t speak he couldn’t breathe. Armand was tight, scorching, wrapped around him like a fevered snake, nailed upon the thick wooden desk with every thrust of hips. The inkpot rolled and shattered, splattering a few black stars upon the milky skin of his pale waist, and this was the only sky the soldier ever hoped to ascend to.

Richelieu didn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t even gasp, his voice broken, his lungs crushed. He just breathed blurred praise, prayers maybe, circling like planets around Jean’s name. Clever, even in that dazed state, he still made sure the sweetest words were purred properly into Treville’s ear, rewarded every time by a rough, shuddering thrust.

 

 

A few more impacts echoed in the fibers of the wooden desk, and Jean only whispered “Armand” once. He came, soundless, spasming, his shaking hand clenched tight into the brown curls as a dying man holds on to his fortune. Maddened by the sight, Armand grabbed Treville’s still wet hand and forced it around his own cock. It might have taken Armand a bit longer to come a second time this night, but not that long.

 

 

Not that long.

 

 

 

 

Somewhere in the few minutes that followed, Treville’s knees gave up on him and he crumbled on the floor, upon the heap of both their outfits. Looking up to apologize, he only saw Armand laughing, sitting on his desk like the most natural thing to do, feet gently dangling in the air, hands joined between his thighs, gazing at him with a warm sunlight of adoration shining beneath thick eyelashes.

                                                            

-“Maybe we could discuss going to the bedroom now” Richelieu mused, his voice cracked by exhaustion.

 

 

The soldier nodded, gently grabbing Armand’s knees to help him up, and leaning in for one more kiss.

 

 

_There was nothing more said afterwards._

 


	2. Dancing in the dark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another added smut, this time for chapter 3. 
> 
> Again, feel free to read it if you'd like a mature version of "What we are living for".  
> Nothing else is added to the plot here. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh, screw it,” the old guardsman finally murmured, burying his other hand in the silvery curls and closing the final gap between them, pressing their lips together while Armand’s body melted against his. The trembling stopped at last.

  

There was something sad about the cold moonlight into the silver hair. There was something forlorn into the pale blue glow of Armand’s skin. Something like snow, or a frozen lake, something beautiful that yet comes with the promise of its own end.

The sun will rise. Casablanca will wake.

 

Where will they be?

 

But Armand moaned, leaning against the wall, his skin burning, his skin begging.  Compared to the slight curve of his neck, all of Jean’s flickers of warmth, all his one-night-stands, every single one of his smiles, everything looked pointless. _‘You’ve been losing time’_ the Moon whispered, and Jean flinched in vague guilt.

 

Treville’s hands slid down to the black robes, searching for an opening, clicking back into old habits with dreadful ease. The Cross was still there, but he knew, by then, he knew.

God never cared.

 

He still removed it with caution, laying it on a small buffet next to them, where it gave up the fight with a last glint of moonlight. As he started defeating the small buttons one by one again, so much faster than he used to in the earlier days, he sensed Armand tense, the wide clear eyes narrowing in worry. He paused, looked up. Even caressed by a lenient light, he could see how struggles and anguish had claimed their price on Armand’s face. Time hadn’t been gentle.

 

War never was.

 

So, the solider smiled, freezing in his moves even if time was short. He watched in fondness every line, every crease drawn upon the pale man’s brow, stroking them with his thumb, paying a small tribute to every mark of another year won over fate. Dearest Armand, _still beautiful._

He could have talked, but he chose to kiss him instead, deep, famished, and grind his hips against him twice. Armand gasped, feeling hardness pressed against his thigh, unquestionable. Reassured maybe, emboldened, no doubt, he once more slid out of his robes like only a snake could, and shifted towards the bed with darkness in his eyes. They were almost too far, those three yards to the right, but the days where a desk sufficed were long past.

 

By the time they both laid upon Treville’s plain sheets, their clothes were scattered in the rooms, forming a sinuous path from denial to blatant truth.

Armand gently laid back, lowered his eyelids and arched his hips. With all the wine, all the booze he’s ever drunk, Treville had never been so intoxicated. He threw himself upon Richelieu, plundering the smooth pale skin. ‘ _You’ve been losing time_ ’ the bed creaked, and the soldier groaned.

He licked and bit and licked some more, cherishing the taste, the smell of long lost years, trying to ignore the promise of the Moon.

 

The sun will rise, she sang. Casablanca will wake.

_Where will you be?_

 

But Armand whimpered, spreading his knees under Jean’s weight, his breath shortened by need. Treville had never been so high. He wanted to talk, he truly did, he wanted to ask how the hell Richelieu got so thin. He wanted to know, he truly did, when those red lines did appear under his eyes. He wanted to pause, he wanted to care.

He wanted to fetch that bottle of oil in his bathroom.

 

But Armand hissed, pulling him flush against him, without a worry for bruise or pain, moving his hips in slow circles, rubbing their hard cocks together. The soldier cried out, demented, feverish, bucking in without control. There was no time for compromise. There so rarely had been.

Out of guilt or out of want, did it matter after all, Richelieu lowered his head and offered his neck, submitted, welcoming. His whimpers had long spiraled up to cries, and he gripped Treville’s shoulder as if it could stop the world from spinning. The wooden bedframe hit the wall in dull beats, dancing to the rhythm of their friction.

It could have been enough for both. Anything could have been. But as time hadn’t been gentle with any of them, as war wasn’t even near finished, as they weren’t as young anymore, the soldier knew he had to make the best of only one shot. So, he grinned and slowed down, even if time was short.

He spat on his fingers and slid them downwards, gliding two of them in, wincing at the sharp cry of pain it tore from Armand’s throat.

 

No questions needed. He knew that all this time, Richelieu allowed no one into his bed.

Well, after all, he himself didn’t let much into his heart.

 

‘ _You’ve been losing time’_ the Moroccan skies laughed.

 

Jean chuckled, dark, ragged.

 

Treville crooked his fingers, moved in circles, finding back his old tricks as if they never left. Armand burned around him, loud, crazed, high-pitched and desperate, so far gone Jean didn’t dare to try more, afraid to hurt him. Maybe, who knew, they’d have some time for one more night.

 

‘ _You are losing your time’_ the moonlight glow sneered. Jean clenched his teeth.

 

He quickened his rhythm, rubbing their cocks as his fingers slid in and out with ease, because in the shaking of his own skin he felt downfall drawing near. By Armand’s glassy eyes, unfocused and veiled, he knew they both wouldn’t be long.

 

Time hadn’t been gentle.

War never was.

 

It could have been enough. Anything could have been.

But Armand growled something about time, pulled himself away from Jean’s fingers, grabbed Treville’s shaft and guided it firmly down. The soldier opened his mouth for a warning that the pale man refused, impaling himself, biting on a sharp groan of pain.

He wanted to be hurt.  
He wanted to be _marked._

 

“I want _everything_ ”, he breathed, and Treville obeyed, unhinged. He thrusted deep, howling, losing his mind, losing himself. A few heartbeats were all it took. He gripped the silver hair, filling Armand one last time, begging the Moon to stop the clock.

He felt, distant, Armand rocking against him for a short while, then shuddering in a long moan, calling his name, maybe once, maybe more.

 

Something broke inside of him, and he let himself fall into the thin pale arms.

The moon, this time, didn’t dare to laugh.

 

 

 

They listened to the street outside for a while, lazily letting the voices and footsteps of the city lull their minds. At some point Armand stood, a bit stiff maybe, and Jean could have laughed, but he just stared, smiling, dear Armand, _still beautiful._

 

Richelieu gently tiptoed to the bathroom and brought back a wet towel he threw at Treville’ face. The soldier dodged, laughed, and for a cruel second those city footsteps could have been Paris, so long ago.

But soon enough the moon whispered. _Casablanca,_ she said.

 

Armand's mirth died, and as he lied back on the bed and curled against Treville, they both fell silent.

 

 

And yet.

There are many ways to resist. Many ways to fight. There are swords, and there are songs. After a while, against a sneering moon, against the laughing skies, The Cardinal de Richelieu started to hum, unmoving and quiet. He hummed, softly, like a man who has all the time he could need, the low rumble in his chest echoing through Treville’s body.

 

The soldier took some time to recognize it, and when he did, it felt like Paris’ sunlight rose upon the white Moroccan rooftops, chasing the cold moonlight away in a warm, yellow blessing.

It was Paul Whiteman’s  _Three O’Clock in the Morning._

_Jean smiled, because after all, the clock did stop somehow._

“I wish we could dance in the dark once more” he breathed, almost against his will.

 

“All our lives, my dear Jean” Armand replied. “All our lives, we’ll forever be _dancing in the dark_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 


End file.
